


Brideshead Reimagined

by frangipane



Series: Brideshead Reimagined [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Light Angst, M/M, period au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-03
Updated: 2013-12-28
Packaged: 2017-12-28 06:45:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 6,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/988975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frangipane/pseuds/frangipane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson meets Sherlock Holmes in Oxford University. The year is 1923. He finds himself drawn into the Holmes family. </p><p>Characters from Sherlock (BBC) set in a loose reinterpretation of Brideshead Revisited. Intended as a tribute to both works - best described as the literary version of a fanvid: Brideshead Revisited (the book, and a bit of the movie) set to a Sherlock soundtrack of characters, with my own plot woven in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

* * *

 

As I reached the top of the hill, I turned and surveyed the landscape. When the army marched in three months before, the place was under snow. Now it was early spring, though the change did little to rejuvenate troop morale, worn down by the perpetual cycle: establish camp in a new location every few months, settle in for preparatory drills and training courses, move on again with no particular articulated goal, other than a vague commitment towards ‘maintaining security’.

It was a gruesome grind – at the age of thirty-nine, I began to be old. I felt stiff and weary in the evenings, and turned in early. Despite the three glasses of gin that I regularly took before dinner, I would toss and turn in fitful sleep, and find myself awake and fretful an hour before reveille.

Here, love had died between me and the army. One early morning some weeks ago, as I lay staring, turning over in my mind the items to be done for the day, I realized that I no longer had any curiosity as to what was to come, and possessed no wish to please – all that remained was mere adherence to law and duty and custom.

So it was with indifference that I undertook the direction of my company to our new destination at an unspecified location. On arrival at the train station, we unloaded and transferred the stores and supplies, and climbed aboard the stifling carriages, which conveyed us slowly through the countryside until dark.  As part of our training in active service conditions, there was no use of the station or platforms. We disembarked by dropping from the running board to the cinder track. With much grumbling, my men fell in and marched down the road to locate the trucks for driving to our new basecamp.

I was met by Weaver, my second-in-command, who was part of the reconnaissance team for this exercise. “Captain Watson - it’s a big stately pile surrounded by pasture and farmland. Nothing else for miles around.  Brideshead Castle, I think is its name. Frightfully ornate. Got a fountain with sculptures out in the front and – would you believe it – a Greek temple of some sort in the rear of the house near the stream -“

“Yes, Weaver, I would. I know exactly where we are going. I have been here before.”

Weaver gaped at me. “There? To live in? Are you rich?” Then he caught himself, cleared his throat, and hurried through the rest of his report. But I was no longer listening. My mind was being drawn, by an unseen hook and invisible line, through the years, back to when I first laid eyes on the place.

 

* * *

 

My first visit to Brideshead – one of many to follow - had been with Sherlock, more than twenty years ago, on a brilliant June day. That day too, I did not know where I was heading.

It was towards the end of Eights Week in Oxford, a lively whirl of rowing races down the Isis and College balls bringing in an influx of women, whose unusual presence inspired all manner of folly among the students.

I was about to set out from my rooms for a stroll, when Sherlock swept in and announced, “You are to come away with me at once! I’ve got a motor-car for the afternoon from Stamford. I know a nice little place where we can hide away with a basket of strawberries and a bottle of Château Peyraguey.”

We climbed into an open, two-seater Morris-Cowley, and drove off, basking in the sunlight, much welcome after a cold, dismal spring. Sherlock soon launched into a dissertation on the effect of the weather on strawberries. “The cool spring means the plants have flowered later, and had longer to put down  a more extensive root system. Four weeks ago, Mummy mentioned in her letter that the berries were still green from the dreary grey days we’ve been having. She had the berries sent to Oxford today, which is a fortnight later than she normally has them.  All that additional time makes for sweeter, larger, and more complex berries.”

At Swindon we turned off the main road, and bumped along some number of unpaved tracks, flanked waist-high with meadowsweet, green laced through with creamy splashes of white blossom. It was about eleven when Sherlock, without warning, stopped the car under a clump of elms. We sat in the shade, ate the strawberries and drank the wine. As Sherlock had promised, they were “heaven together”.

Afterwards, we lit fat Turkish cigarettes and laid on our backs. Sherlock’s eyes were on the dappled canopy of light and shade above him, following the blue-grey smoke we made as it swirled upwards and disappeared. 

“Just the place to bury a crock of gold,” mused Sherlock. “I should like to bury something precious in every place where I’ve been happy and then, when I was old and miserable, I could come back and dig it up and remember.”

This was my third term since matriculation, but I date my Oxford life from my first meeting with Sherlock, which had happened, by chance, at the start of the week a few days before. We were in different colleges and came from different schools; nor was there any mingling of the company that we kept, but for his getting drunk one evening in my college and of my having ground-floor rooms in the front quadrangle. 


	2. A Most Amusing Young Gentleman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Donovan disapproves. John crosses paths with Sherlock.

* * *

 

My cousin Donovan had warned me about the inherent dangers of my lodgings, when he took it upon himself to call on me during my first week at Oxford. He was in his fourth year, and well established as a considerable person in college, being a rower of some renown, secretary of the Canning club, and president of his school’s Junior Common Room.

Even now, I remember his litany of injunctions, delivered over tea: “… You’re reading Medicine? A respectable enough ambition, I suppose. You should go to the best lectures – irrespective of whether they are in your school or not … Clothes. Not the tweed coat and flannel trousers you are wearing now. Always wear a suit. And go to a London tailor; you get a better cut and longer credit. Clubs. Join the Carlton now and the Grid at the beginning of your second year. You’re not an Old Etonian, but it should not matter by then. If you want to run for the Union – think about making your reputation now. You’ll find you spend half your second year shaking off the undesirable friends you made in your first … Don’t bury yourself in your studies – get acquainted with culture for your intellectual education, but beware of falling in with eccentrics and aesthetes. That would be taking things too far …”

On taking his leave, Donovan turned back to make one last point. “Bit of advice. Change your rooms. I’ve seen many a man ruined through having ground-floor rooms in the front quad. People tend to drop by unannounced and unbidden. And those that do are the very worst sorts.”

I certainly had no intention of giving up my rooms – they were large, with deeply recessed windows that opened out onto an expanse of green lawn. There were gilly-flowers growing below the windows, which on summer evenings filled them with fragrance. It was vastly preferable to the stuffy rooms and small garden plot in the London house that I shared with my father.

As I navigated my way through the first term, I settled into a comfortable routine. I found myself with a small circle of friends, meeting in the evenings after supper to compare one’s progression through Oxford to what was described in _Sinister Street_ , wallow indulgently in gloomy poetry readings from _A Shropshire Lad,_ and read excerpts out of _South Win_ for vicarious thrills over sherry.   It was not unlike what I had at school in the sixth form, but with my own rooms and my own cheque book. However, I felt at heart that this was not all which Oxford had to offer.

I knew Sherlock by sight long before I met him. That was unavoidable, for, from his first week, he was the most conspicuous man of his year by reason of his beauty, which was arresting, and his eccentricities of behavior, which seemed to know no bounds.

My first sight of him was in the door of Germer’s, and on that occasion, I was struck less by his looks than by the fact that he was carrying a human skull under his arm.

“That”, said Angelo the barber, as I took his chair, “was Lord Sherlock Holmes. A _most_ amusing young gentleman.”

“Ah.”

“The Marquis of Marchmain’s third boy. His brother, Mycroft, went down last term. Very quiet gentleman.  The eldest, the Earl of Brideshead, was also here a few years ago. Now he was _very_ different.”

The man, who, in his time, had seen to generations of undergraduates, was plainly captivated.  “What do you suppose Lord Sherlock wanted? A jar of brilliantine for the skull he carries about; it had to be the same one Mycroft had, with the lavender. He had “William” engraved on the jar – that’s the skull’s name.”

I raised my eyebrows. Angelo chuckled at my censorious disapproval.

There were subsequent glimpses of Sherlock, dashing about the cobbles and up the steps, a copy of the _Cherwell_ in hand, often in disguise and clutching strange objects. One evening, I thought I saw him dining at the George in false whiskers and proctor’s robes. The next day, the _Cherwell_ reported that the month’s treasure hunt was won by “Raffles Hornung”, who left a signed note under the Chancellor’s pipe, where it was found locked in a display case at the Ashmolean with an Etruscan bull of the fifth century. These escapades did little to soften my views towards him.

Nor, when at last we met, were the circumstances propitious. It was shortly before midnight in late May. I had been hosting a reading party with mulled claret; the air of my room was heavy with smoke and spice, so I threw open my windows, and sank back into my chair. The evening had been dedicated to Tennyson – we had seen a most convincing Lady of Shalott, en route to one of the many costume parties held during Eights week: a pale beauty, flowing auburn hair ablaze in the setting sun, crossing under the Madgdalen bridge in a punt, fine cotton lawn chemise trailing translucent in the waters.

My flight into fantasy was interrupted by the sound of unsteady steps approaching from the quad. I saw a figure in white come across the lawn and disappear, no doubt a figment fuelled by claret and fancy. I peered out of the window, and saw a mass of dark curls bobbing among the white gilly-flowers.

“What are you doing?”

Sherlock raised his head, his eyes unfocused.  “ … ‘flowers. One for my buttonhole, and the rest for –“ He stopped suddenly, color draining from his flushed face. “D’you know, I feel most unwell. Do excuse me.” He leaned forward well into the room, and was violently sick.

It was not unusual for dinner parties to end in that way; in fact the porters had a recognized tariff for dealing with such occasions; we were all learning, by trial and error, to carry our wine. There was also a kind of insane and endearing orderliness about Sherlock’s choice, in his extremity, of an open window. But, when all is said, it remained an unpropitious meeting.

In a few minutes, Stamford, an amiable Etonian of my year, caught up to Sherlock. Judging from his costume, he had been steering the punt from the afternoon. He, too, was tipsy, and after an impassioned but incoherent apology, bore Sherlock away, flowers still clutched in his hand.


	3. You Know Where to Find Me

 

* * *

 

It was with a sense of grievance that I faced Dimmock’s reproaches next morning.

“A couple of jugs of mulled claret between the five of you,” Dimmock groused, “and _this_ had to happen. Couldn’t even get to the window. Those that can’t keep it down are better without it.”

“No, no. Wait, wait. It wasn’t one of my party. It was someone from out of college. Came in through the window before I could stop him. There’s five shillings on the sideboard.”

“So I saw and thank you, but I’d rather not have the money and not have the mess. There’s enough going on this week, what with setting up spare rooms for the ladies’ cloaks and buying _pin-cushions …”_

I took my gown and left Dimmock muttering as he scrubbed. It was after eleven when I returned from my lectures. I found my room full of flowers. Dimmock was unwrapping the last of them as I walked in.

“Dimmock, _what_ is all this?”

“The gentleman from last night, sir, he left a note for you.”

The note was on a sheet torn from my best notebook.

_Aloysius won’t speak to me until I am forgiven, so please come to luncheon today. You know where to find me. SH._

It was typical of him, I reflected, to assume I knew where he lived; but then, I _did_ know.

“A most amusing gentleman, I’m sure it’s quite a pleasure to clean up after him. I take it you’re lunching out, sir.”

“Yes, Dimmock, lunching out.”

I set out for Christ Church, ignoring the priggish, warning voice in my ear, which in the tones of Donovan told me it was seemly to hold back. But I was in search of love in those days, and I went full of curiosity and the faint, unrecognized apprehension that here, at last, I should find that low door in the wall, which others, I knew, had found before me, which opened on an enclosed and enchanted garden, which was somewhere, not overlooked by any window, in the heart of that grey city.

Sherlock’s rooms were high in the Meadow Buildings. He was alone when I arrived. On seeing my reflection in the looking glass above the fireplace, he turned to greet me. “Hello.” His bright eyes and prim carriage betrayed no trace of the exploits from the previous evening.

“Ah, Mr. Holmes.”

“Sherlock, please.” We shook hands.

He gestured to the plover’s eggs nestled in a large nest of moss in the centre of his table. “Do you want to eat?”

He cleared a space on the large table, setting the objects to one side – a violin, an array of chemical glass equipment filled with various fluids, a pocket watch with its back cover opened, cogs and springs spilling out on to a sheaf of papers, a snuffed candle, and on top of a pile of books, Aloysius the skull.

I gestured at the strange jumble as we sat down. “ _Memento Mori._ It looks like something out of a Dutch still life. A variation on _vanitas._ ”

Sherlock smiled briefly. “Do you think so? That’s not what people normally say.”

“What do they normally say?”

“Oh, Sherlock. The mess you’ve made.”

“The flowers you had sent to my room – it must have been the entire day’s stock at the market.“

“What did you think?”

“What am I supposed to do with them? I have nobody to give them to.” I paused, having said more than I intended.

“You could send a note to Sebastian Wilkes. Tell him that at the moment, there is no other place in Oxford to find cut gardenias, camellias, orchids, or lilies except from your rooms. I expect that he would be willing to pay you handsomely in exchange for the flowers. He plans to propose to Lady Sarah Sawyer, who is coming up from London to attend the ball at Hertford College this evening.” There was a small note of triumph in his voice.

“How about you? Do you have a ball to go to this evening?”

Sherlock waved a dismissive hand at his chimney-piece. It was covered with cards of invitation. “I have no interest in gently bred débutantes and insipid heiresses. Dull.”

“What did you want with the flowers under my window then?”

Most of the gilly-flowers from last night were arranged in a beaker filled with red liquid. A single stem was stuck, quill-like, into a heavy crystal inkwell filled with green ink.

Sherlock flicked open a pocketknife, cut off the tinted blossom, and stuck it into his lapel.

“I wanted a green carnation.”

“You could have gotten one from the market.”

“Well, this is more fun.”

He rose from the table and threw on his coat. “I must go to the Botanical Gardens.”

“Why?”

“To see the ivy.  I like company when I go out, and I think better when I talk aloud. William just attracts attention …”

It seemed a good enough reason and I went with him. He took my arm as we walked under the walls of Merton.

“I’ve never been to the Botanical Gardens,” I said.

“Oh, John, what a lot you have to learn! I don’t know where I should be without the Botanical Gardens.”

That day was the beginning of my friendship with Sherlock, and so it was, that morning in June, that I was lying beside him in the shade of the high elms, watching the smoke from his lips drift up into the branches. 

 


	4. Brideshead Visited

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock takes John to Brideshead. John learns more about the Holmes family.

* * *

 

“Where are we going?”

“To see a friend.”

“Who?”

“Name of Hudson.”

We got back into the car and in the early afternoon came to our destination: wrought-iron gates and twin, classical lodges on a village green, an avenue, more gates, open parkland, a turn in the drive; and suddenly a new and secret landscape opened before us. We were at the head of a valley and below us, half a mile distant, grey and gold amid a screen of boscage, shone the dome and columns of an old house.

“What a place to live in!” I said.

“Brideshead. It’s where my family live.” He said, stopping the car at a side court. “Everything’s shut up. We’d better go in this way.” He led me through the servants’ quarters, a labyrinth of passages and steep stairs. “I want you to meet Mrs. Hudson.”

Sherlock’s nanny was seated at the open window of the nurseries.  “Sherlock, hello!”

Sherlock leaned down to kiss her, and handed her a small bunch of pink flowers. “For you, nanny. And this is John Watson.” He sat down at her feet.

“You’ve come at just the right time. Mycroft’s also coming up for the day from London. I told the kitchen to bring in a walnut cake from Fuller’s.  Now what’s the news? Are you studying hard at your books?”

“Not at all, nanny.”

They talked on, while I stood by the chest of drawers and studied the collection of small souvenirs and presents brought to her at various times by her charges. Presently Mrs. Hudson said: “Ring the bell, dear, and we’ll have some tea.”

But Sherlock said we had to go.

“And miss Mycroft? It would have been _such_ a surprise for him.”

We hurried back through the maze of corridors. “We must leave before my brother arrives. I’m not having you mixed up with my family. All my life they’ve been taking things away from me. They’d make you _their_ friend not mine, and I won’t let them.”

“All right. We’ll go. But am I to see any more of the house?”

“One day – not now.”

As we drove out, a Rolls-Royce was stopped at the front. The chauffeur opened the door, and a dark suited figure alighted, swinging his umbrella as he walked leisurely up the steps. He turned around and looked at us before continuing into the house.   

 “Mycroft,” said Sherlock. “We only just got away in time.”

That is the full account of my first brief visit to Brideshead. Could I have known then that it would one day be remembered with tears by a middle-aged captain of infantry?  

* * *

 

Towards the end of that summer term, I received the last visit and Grand Remonstrance of my cousin Donovan. He fretfully declared that he had taken precious time out of preparing for his examinations, such was the burden of his concern for me upon his overtaxed conscience.

“You may think it none of my business, but I must tell you – stay away from Sherlock Holmes.”

“Why?”

“Whether you realize it or not, you are being talked about. I’ve become a figure of mockery on your account at the Dining Club. Just last week, I heard that you and Sherlock were thrown out of a music hall for disturbing a performance.”

“Well … ” 


	5. The Luxury of Eccentricity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is drawn further into Sherlock's world.

* * *

 

“Go on.” Donovan folded his arms. I fixed my gaze at the clock behind him, and considered my response.

It began three days ago. I had just acquitted myself of my academic trials for the term, when Sherlock caught up with me on my way home. He brandished two tickets at me, and convinced me that a night outside the confines of the university would be a welcome respite. I met Sherlock that evening outside the music hall in Cowley, which was playing host this week to a psychic ‘communing with the spirits beyond’. We went in and took our seats. What followed was an uneasy hour and a half in the dark, with Sherlock unleashing a stream of harsh mutterings which I fervently hoped was inaudible beyond my left ear.

“Anyone with eyes can see that the man brought up on stage from the audience had recently lost his wife and is struggling to raise a little girl and a newborn infant by himself. The state of his clothing and that bit of frayed satin ribbon dangling out of his pocket gives it away.”

“With the war ending not five years ago, of course we have someone in the audience seeking contact with a loved one. It is a virtual guarantee that one or more of those loved ones would be either named ‘William’, ‘George’, ‘Thomas’, or ‘James’. He only needs to call out the name, and wait for someone to wail their recognition.”

And so on.

When we were well on our way back to the university, I remarked that it was certainly an experience that we will not be repeating again. To my surprise, Sherlock replied rather grimly that he will be returning to the music hall the following evening.

“Why on earth would you want to do that?”

“To expose a charlatan! You heard the man offering private consultations at the end of the performance. It is despicable to prey on the desperate hopes and finances of people who could ill afford to spend what little they have. Ignorance is by no means a virtue, but faith, however blind, does not deserve to be abused.”

Despite my misgivings, I agreed to accompany Sherlock to the music hall the next evening, mostly out of concern for his safety. As anticipated, Sherlock launched into derisive commentary – this time, audible to the entire hall – which inevitably led to our eviction from the premises. It was an early but welcome end to this particular misadventure, noble though its intent may have been.

I knew that even a full accounting of the events would do little to change Donovan’s dim view of what had occurred. Nor did I have much esteem for his self-appointed role of being my keeper. I decided despair was quickest method to dispose of Donovan. I crossed over to the table, reached for the sugar bowl, and emptied all the sugar lumps in it into my pocket.

“John, what _are_ you doing?”

“Off to see a friend at Christ Church in a quarter of an hour’s time. Would you care to join us for some absinthe?”

“At three in the afternoon? How … _bohemian_.”

I smiled at him. “It might be embarrassing for you, but I _like_ having Sherlock as my friend.”

Donovan glared at me. “Family is all we have at the end, John Watson. The Holmes family has the wherewithal to indulge in eccentricity. Despite the curious state of his family’s affairs, I hear that Mycroft Holmes has managed to make a name for himself at Whitehall. Our family, while respectable, affords us no such allowances when we make our way in the world.”

With a parting sigh, Donovan turned and strode out in stony silence, his grip tight upon his walking stick. I trailed behind him, whistling a cheerful tune.

When I arrived at Sherlock’s rooms, he had already laid out the accoutrements of our afternoon’s diversion. I set the sugar lumps sat next to a beaker of spring water placed in an ice bath. With a flourish, Sherlock presented the bottle of absinthe and poured out the liqueur, taking care to stop when it filled the bulb at the base of our glasses. He placed two lumps of sugar on a slotted silver spoon, and balanced it over the rim of one glass. He then picked up the beaker, and began dripping the chilled water drop by drop on to the sugar, murmuring his observations as the sugar slowly dissolved and the yellow-green liquid precipitated into cloudy opalescent white, noting the various volatile oils as they revealed themselves and mingled into a heady scent. I watched, entranced, as he repeated the process on the second glass with a concentration that approached ritual ecstasy.

Sherlock handed me a glass with a wry smile. “A toast to the beginning of the Long Vacation – a proven remedy superior to the reputed restorative powers in a preparation of wormwood.”


	6. Come At Once

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A telegram from Sherlock summons John to Brideshead.

 

* * *

 

Having neither money nor plans for the Long Vacation, I returned home to stay with my father in his house near Paddington station. Sherlock had disappeared into that other life of his where I was not asked to follow, and I was left, forlorn and regretful.

It was several weeks before I managed to consign myself to the summer torpor, which was dispelled by a telegram which arrived for me one afternoon – “ **Brideshead. Injured. Come at once. SH.** ”

Taking only a quarter of an hour to pack my suitcase, I hurried to the station and caught the first available train.  As the journey wore on, my mind conjured up fearful scenarios, each more gruesome than the last.  By the time I changed trains to the local line, my heart lurched uneasily in time with the train wheels.

On hurrying out of the station at Melstead Carbury, rumpled and blinking after the dim confines of the carriage, I was surprised to hear someone calling my name.

“Get into the car, Mr. Watson.”

Startled, I squinted my eyes against the setting sun to search for the speaker. I saw Mycroft, impeccable in a cream linen suit, idling his car in the shade of some trees. He inclined his head in greeting. Introductions made, I stowed away my bag, and we set off for Brideshead.

“How is Sherlock?”

“Oh, he’s fine. Sherlock cracked a bone in his ankle so small that it hasn’t a name.” Mycroft informed me in a manner both amused and contemptuous. “He slipped on the white bishop on his way out of the drawing room Monday evening. They’ve told him to keep his foot up for the month. He’s been making the most enormous fuss - he does love to be dramatic. Well, I expect you would know. You seem to let Sherlock boss you about a good deal. You shouldn’t. It’s very bad for him.”

“I could be wrong ... but I think that’s none of your business.”

Mycroft chuckled softly. “I worry about him. Constantly.”

“That’s nice of you.”

“How many ‘friends’ do you imagine he has? I imagine people have already warned you to stay away from him. And you don’t seem the kind to make friends easily.”

He turned and fixed a piercing look at me. I was struck by the double illusion of familiarity and strangeness. “I am the closest thing to a friend that Sherlock Holmes is capable of having. Though if you were to ask him, he’d probably say his arch-enemy.” Mycroft shrugged, and leaned forward to the locker for a box of cigarettes.

“Would you like one?”

“No, thank you.”

“Light one for me, will you?”

“I forgot my lighter in the rush to Paddington station.”

“I have one in my jacket pocket.”

I reached into Mycroft’s pocket. The lighter was warm to the touch, warmer than the brush of his gloved fingertips when I took the lit cigarette from my lips and passed it to him. It was the first time in my life that anyone had asked this of me. I remained silent for the remainder of the drive, tracing the filigree on the lighter with my thumb. 

When we arrived at Brideshead, Sherlock appeared between the pillars at the entrance of the hall, propelling himself in a wheel-chair. He was in pajamas and dressing gown, with one foot heavily bandaged. He held an umbrella as a walking stick, with Aloysius peached atop the handle.

“I thought you were dying!” I said, more vexed than relieved.

“I thought I was, too. The boredom is excruciating.”

Mycroft led the way to an ornately furnished parlour, where a cold supper was laid out. After our port, I pushed Sherlock’s wheelchair through the garden, Sherlock directing the way with a lime tree branch that he had broken off. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the lag between updates! If you are still reading, thank you for sticking around! More updates to come this week!


	7. The Languor of Youth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock spend a happy summer together at Brideshead.

 

* * *

 

During that brief summer, Sherlock and I relived a happy childhood that never was, though our toys were silk shirts and liqueurs and cigars, and our naughtiness high in the catalogue of grave sins. Nonetheless, there was a sort of innocent joy about those days at Brideshead, and I, at any rate, believed myself very near heaven.

It was thus that I like to remember Sherlock, as he was then, when we wandered alone together through that enchanted palace; Sherlock in his wheel-chair spinning down the box-edged walks of the kitchen gardens in search of alpine strawberries and warm figs, propelling himself through the succession of hot-houses, from scent to scent and climate to climate, to cut the muscat grapes and choose orchids for our button-holes. Sherlock supine on the sunny seat in the colonnade, and I in a pile of cushions at his feet.

We spent many of our hours – both waking and sleeping – in this shaded pavilion. Sherlock deemed it too stifling to stay inside the house, and had arranged for Wilcox to set up bedding on the terrace. “In any case, that’s where we will be best left alone. Out in the open.” The terrace stood on massive stone ramparts above the lakes, so that from the hall steps it seemed to overhang them, as though, standing by the balustrade, one could have dropped a pebble into the water below. 

During the day, we would occupy ourselves with reading. I alternated between desultory attempts at keeping up with medical texts and far more enthusiastic forays into poetry. Sherlock had been avidly following the investigations mounted by the  _Scientific American,_ which had offered two awards of twenty five hundred American dollars, one for the first person who could produce an authentic spirit photograph under test conditions and the other for the first medium to produce an authentic "visible psychic manifestation". He was corresponding with Houdini, who was a member of the investigating committee. Sherlock had received from Houdini a copy of his book “Miracle Mongers and their Methods”, and he would read aloud choice passages, such as how to cause flames to leap out of one’s mouth using camphor. “A simple trick. Take two parts of aquavit to one each of mercury and liquid styrax obtained from the _liquidambar orientalis_ and set a match. Flames appear but do not burn.” When the warm summer sun became unbearable, we would cool ourselves by paddling in the lake below.

In the evenings, there would be three bottles of wine open on the table and three glasses before each of us.  Lounging about in pajamas and dressing gown, we swirled the wine around in the glasses, nursed it in our hands, held it to the candlelight, breathed it, and sipped it. Then we would compare our opinions with this book on vintages that Sherlock had found in the Library Room, and pass on to another wine, then back to the first, then on to another, until the order of glasses got confused, and we fell out over which was which. We passed the glasses to and fro between us until there were six glasses, some of them with mixed wines in them which we had filled from the wrong bottle, till we were obliged to start again with three clean glasses each, until the bottles were empty and our praise of them wilder and more exotic.

“Dappled, in a tapestry meadow.”

“Like a flute by still water.” Sherlock tipped his head back to empty his wineglass, spilling the last few drops.

I watched them trickle down his neck, settling into luminous beads at the hollows of his neck and shoulder. I leaned in and tasted them – creamy pears and white flowers, lightly mineral finish, now commingled with a hint of salt. “Mmmm. A necklace of pearls on a white neck.”

He drew me into his arms, and kissed me. Dusk had faded into night - we could see nothing beyond the flicking puddles of light about us, and our sighs and small exclamations of pleasure became lost among the murmur of summer insects punctuated by bird call.

“Ought we to be drunk _every_ night?” Sherlock asked one morning.

“Yes, I think so.”

“I think so too.” 


	8. A Question of Faith

* * *

 

We saw few strangers about the estate, until preparations began about a week in advance of the annual Agricultural Show, a country fair and social gathering that would last two days, bringing together the neighbouring parishes. Workmen pitched tents, carried in wooden benches, and set up fenced pens for livestock. While I regarded the progress with much curiosity, Sherlock sequestered himself with a pile of letters and papers in the pavilion, and seemed to grow more irritable by the day. On the day of the show, Sherlock pronounced with a scowl that his brother will be presiding over the events, and we should make ourselves scarce.

“I don’t see why we should - Mycroft was perfectly civil when he dropped me off at Brideshead.”

Sherlock made a derisive noise. “Mycroft at the Agricultural Show? Pigs would fly before that happens.  No, Anderson is coming. Now hurry up and finish your lunch and meet me on the roof of the house. I’ll go and fetch a telescope from the library.”

I found Sherlock lying on the roof of the house, sunbathing and blowing bubbles with a clay pipe that he had come across in the nursery.  I took the telescope, and peered down at a drab figure in brown moving among the tenants, stopping to greet the judges in their box, leaning over fences gazing seriously at cattle and sheep.

“Stamford was right that Anderson isn’t as _charming_ as you or Mycroft … what words did he use exactly? Right - something archaic, out of a cave that’s been sealed for centuries.”

“Oh, he’s much the strangest of us, only it doesn’t come out at all. He’s all twisted inside. He wanted to be a priest, you know. I still think he does. He nearly became a Jesuit, straight from Stonyhurst. Mummy couldn’t exactly try and stop him, but of course it was the last thing she wanted, even though she is Catholic through and through. The eldest son, after all! It’s not as if it had been me. “

He paused for a moment. “I am catholic in my breadth and depth of my quest for knowledge … “ He spread his hands with a flourish for emphasis. “But not where faith is concerned.”

He dropped his hands back into his lap. “I should _like_ to _believe_ , but I will never accept anything which cannot be proved to me … in any case, they don’t really mean what they preach. Papa tried, for Mummy’s sake, you know. Until he left it behind with the rest of us. He built her the chapel as a wedding present. A monument of _art nouveau –_ to love. Poor papa. He had so much faith in love. The Church has been enough trouble to him without the incident with Anderson. Somehow Anderson was persuaded to go up to Oxford instead. And he’s been trying to make up his mind since.”

Sherlock had never spoken seriously of his family before. I said: “It must have upset you all when your father went away.”

“All but Lestrade. He was too young. Anderson was the most upset, you see, when papa left to live in Italy – much more than mummy really. It upset _me_ at the time. I didn’t see why he had to leave. Mummy tried to explain it to the three eldest of us so that we wouldn’t hate papa. I believe she wished I would. I was always his favourite. I would be staying with him right now, if it wasn’t for this foot. Why don’t you come too? You’d like him.”

We were interrupted by the sound of running footsteps from beyond the chimney-stacks. “Sherlock, Sherlock! I know you’re here somewhere! Where are you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anderson was written into my plot from the very beginning (see chapter 2 at Angelo the barber), but with Anderson figuring into Sherlock S03, things may get interesting. 
> 
> As usual, thank you for reading, and happy Sherlock S03 watching!


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